


One Crazy Theory

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Established Relationship, M/M, NO CAPES, Polyamory, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason's always believed that Timothy Drake, the CEO of Drake Industries, is his soulmate, and that the matching name across his heart confirms it. But Tim's mark doesn't read Jason, and the person it does match, Damian Wayne, certainly doesn't believe it's possible that Tim could be his soulmate, when his mark reads 'Richard' instead. Honestly, Jason is just waiting for the day he meets this 'Richard,' because he's sure that Richard's mark is going to say <em>Jason</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theLiterator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/gifts).



> Hello, guys! So, this is a soulmate AU. This one is 'you have your soulmate's first name written on you in their handwriting', and it's Robinpile. XD More than that, it's a _stripper_ AU too. Yep, all the good things in this one. Hope you enjoy!

Tim’s nails dig into my shoulders, shoving me back against the headboard. His knees are tight against my hips, head thrown back and throat arched in a way that’s always just so goddamn _gorgeous_. My hands are at his ass, gripping and only _barely_ helping to guide him as he rides me with a force just shy of desperate, and he’s moaning and gasping and pretty much drowning out all the sounds I’m making in return.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I nearly shout, my back arching away from the headboard I’m leaning against as I grit my teeth together, rocking my hips up to meet his thrusts. “Tim, _god_ , Tim!”

His head rolls down, and then he’s _shoving_ me back to hold me down and I shudder. My head tilts back against the wall, and he leans in to put his teeth — fucking _gloriously_ sharp teeth — right against my ear.

“ _Stay_ ,” he hisses, and I bite my tongue to try and hold off from coming then and there. I shiver, flex my fingers on his ass, and let out a deep moan towards our roof. Tim’s groan of satisfaction is all the reward I’d ever need. “ _Good_ boy, Jason. Just a little longer, just a _minute_.”

I let my head fall down, getting my mouth against his shoulder and setting my teeth to work to keep myself distracted. It’s _impossible_ to forget the perfect, genius, _god_ riding me, but I can at least get my attention on the very worthy goal of marking up his skin with a dozen little reminders of this round. They’ll join the fading ones that haven’t quite healed from two nights ago, and the hard scratches down my back from last night that are still a little scabbed in places.

Tim shakes, cock rubbing between us as he moves and painting trails of faint wetness along my stomach. His breath catches, his fingers dig into my shoulders _harder_ , and I cling to him as his lifts and falls edge over that last bit into _desperate_.

A few moments and then he arches, _screams_ to the heavens as he comes between our chests. He rides me right through it, and I shout his name as I follow him right off that cliff. It blinds me for a second, and I come out of that momentary whiteness with shaking limbs and exhaustion starting to drag me down next to the utter, bone-deep satisfaction. Tim is still, resting with his head ducked down against my shoulder and my softening cock still inside him. I lift a faintly trembling hand up to comb through his hair and scratch his scalp, and he hums and almost purrs right into the crook of my neck.

“We staying here?” I manage to ask, tilting my head in against his.

“Mmhm,” he confirms. “Couple minutes.”

My mouth curls into a soft grin as I relax back against the headboard. “You got it, babe. Always down to make you late for work.”

He curls an arm around the back of my neck, shifting closer and all but curling up on my chest. “I’m not late. Yet.” His free hand presses against my chest, and I hum soft pleasure as one of his nails traces the dark lines of cursive over my heart. _Timothy_ ; all the proof I need — combined with my love for him — that Tim is meant to be my soulmate.

Or maybe one of several. I have a theory going.

He reaches the end of the y of his name, and then presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat and pushes back from me. He lifts off of me, prompting shivers from both of us, before swinging around and sliding off the bed. He heads for the bathroom as I strip off the condom and drop it in the trash can on the floor just to the left of the bed. Then I follow him.

Getting clean without actually losing any more time is a lost cause. I end up on my knees in the shower before we’re done, feeling the burn of Tim’s hands in my hair and listening to every cry with sharp pride burning in my chest and my hand around my own cock. If we had any real energy left there probably would have been a third round too, but he’s content to let me massage product into his hair and soap into his back before he leaves me to finish washing up on my own. For the best, because he has to take the time to dry his hair for work and I don’t.

We get out at roughly the same time, as he throws on a pair of yoga pants that are fucking _sin_ in form and one of my shirts. It’s way too big for him, hanging off one shoulder, and I waste more than a few seconds just staring at how unbelievably pretty he is. At least until he tosses me a pair of worn jeans and a black tank-top with a smug little smirk and a wink. Of course he knows I’m watching.

When we actually get out of the bedroom I tilt my head up, smelling food in the air and immediately steering Tim towards the kitchen. It’s not really a surprise to find Damian — one of Tim’s business partners and probably the one least likely to try and take his whole company — at my stove, nudging what I think is an omelet around in a pan with a cup of coffee already in his other hand.

Still, it’s _my_ kitchen.

Damian turns to look at us, jade eyes cool and every bit of him already put together. His dark grey suit fits perfectly to his tall, lean frame, every fold neatly pressed and making him look like exactly what he is. The heir to two different _massive_ corporations and therefore well on route to be the richest man in the world before all that long. Tim’s not far behind, but he has the distinct advantage of already running his company, whereas Damian is only eighteen and still has to grow into command.

“You two are _very_ loud,” he says with one raised eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. “Have you considered soundproofing?”

I snort, circling around to the coffee maker to find it already filling a second cup. “Have you considered not breaking into other people’s homes?” I pull out the cream from the fridge and set it next to the coffee maker for when it finishes — Tim’s coffee usually barely looks like coffee once he’s done — before heading for Damian. He lets me push him away from the stove and take over whatever he’s started cooking, though he flicks his eyes up.

“I am capable of cooking, Todd.”

“But it’s _my_ kitchen,” I counter. “Sit your ass down, Damian.” He obeys, after pausing just long enough that it’s supposed to be clear that it’s his choice and not my command, and takes the opposite end of the kitchen table from where Tim will end up. I check his omelet, find it acceptably started, and pull out ingredients for two more.

“Is it really breaking in if I have a key?” Damian’s voice is slightly amused, that slight accent to his tone coming out a bit more now that he’s not paying attention to it. He’s lounging in the chair, one long leg crossed over the other and looking perfectly at ease.

I watch Tim pour his coffee, and then give him a small nod when he glances at me to see if he should leave it going for a third one as well. “Yeah, but I don’t remember ever _giving_ you a key so I really don’t know where you got it.”

One of his hand flicks dismissively. “Technicalities. If you are invading my life I am entitled to invade yours as well, though I suppose the one benefit to your _incessantly_ loud morning activities is that you make rather excellent alarm clocks. How did I ever manage to wake myself on time without both of you?” His voice is dry and sarcastic, and I shoot him a grin over my shoulder.

“Voyeur,” I accuse. “Get a pair of earplugs.”

“So I can miss my _actual_ alarm? Not particularly forward thinking, is it?” I give a small laugh, and Damian scoffs. “Drake, please put on something that does _not_ show off all those hickeys. We have a meeting in a half an hour, remember?”

“It’s not like they can start without us,” Tim points out, the amusement easy to read in his voice.

“It is a matter of _professionalism_.”

I empty the omelet Damian started onto a plate, give the other two a quick nudge to make sure they don’t burn on the one side, and then carry that plate over to Tim and set it down in front of him. He meets me with a kiss that tastes like coffee and a smile curving his lips. One of his hands reaches up and slides his fingertips through the short hairs at the back of my neck, and I resist doing the same to him. If _he_ goes out with messed up hair it makes headlines.

“ _Todd_.” Damian’s clipped tone is obviously displeased, and I just barely resist flipping him off.

Instead, I pull back a bit until I can grin across the table at him. “ _Suck_ it, Damian. Partner privileges.”

A scoff, and then Damian is leaning a little further back in his chair. “You are not even soulmates, Todd. It is not _your_ name on Drake’s skin, is it?”

I give Tim one last lingering kiss before pulling back. “Says _you_.” I slide my hands over Tim’s shoulders, stepping in against his back as I lean down to press my mouth to the perfect, flowing name written on the back of Tim’s neck. “You know whose name _is_ written back here, Dami? In _Arabic?_ ”

He rolls his eyes. “A _common_ one, and your ‘partner’ is the CEO of a global corporation who will meet _hundreds_ of people from my part of the world. The writing on my arm does not say ‘Timothy’ now does it?”

Tim leans his head back, lightly tugging at my hair. “Spoilsport,” he teases, sliding his fingers down my neck and then pushing me back. I take the cue, though I steal one last kiss to that black script before I head back to the stove.

It’s a wild theory, maybe it’s an insane theory, but I just _know_ that Tim is supposed to be mine. He feels like no one else I’ve ever been around, I _love_ him with every inch of my soul, and I can’t imagine the thought that he might _not_ be my soulmate. I’d been in love before him, but never like this. Never with this _depth_ and certainty. As far as I’m concerned, there couldn’t possibly be a different ‘Timothy’ in the world that destiny’s said will be mine. Tim is it.

Tim’s mark says ‘Damian’ though, all written out in Arabic, and there’s no arguing that. Following that thread, Damian’s says ‘Richard,’ and I don’t think I know one of those yet. Damian is from older families, one of which believes that the only true relationship is between two soulmates, and that means he’s been _stubborn_ about even the thought of maybe seeing if my insane idea could be possible.

There are some very rare stories out there about soulmate _groups_ , hidden deep down in search results, but I’ve never seen one about a group larger than three. The names go in circles, so I have this mad little hope in the back of my chest that maybe one of us will meet a Richard somewhere, and he’ll have my name on him. Maybe that might be enough to convince Damian that this is even possible.

Also, the idea of the media _outrage_ is kind of a fantastic thought. They have some of the most hilarious ideas about my relationship with Tim, it’s great.

They think I’m _whipped_ , which is just about the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever read. Sure, if ‘whipped’ means that Tim brings home all the money, and I get to take care of him, indulge _all_ my hobbies, and get the most fucking incredible sex on a nearly daily basis. What do people think I’m sacrificing to live this kind of a dream, exactly?

Then again, these are the same morons that think I’m ‘Drake’s bad boy,’ so they clearly haven’t got brains to begin with. Honestly, Tim is generally way more ruthless than I ever am. Also honestly, I think it’s _really_ fucking hot when Tim goes all corporate-ice-queen and starts cutting people down to size.

I give Damian his omelet next, then scoop the last one out of the pan and join them at the table. Tim steals another kiss from me a minute later, when he finishes his food and gets up to go change into more appropriate clothes for his work. Damian makes a faintly disgusted noise, but I grin at him and he just rolls his eyes and goes back to eating with one hand. With his other, he pulls his cellphone out and starts flicking through it, a small frown gathering between his eyebrows.

“We’re going to be _late!_ ” he calls towards the other half of the house.

Tim shouts something back, but I can’t understand it and judging by his exasperated look, neither can Damian.

“It’s a lost cause,” I tell him conspiratorially, like it’s a secret between us.

The look he shoots me is very _pointed_. “You say that as if _you_ are not part of the problem, Todd. You encourage his behavior; I’ve seen it.”

I don’t even _try_ to pretend otherwise. “Guilty as charged and _happy_ to be that way. Speaking of bad influences, got anything particularly early tomorrow morning?” He gives a small shake of his head, and I grin and lean my elbow on the table so I can really face him. “We should go out.”

His look is suspicious. “Where did you have in mind, Todd?”

“Well, you guys are closing a big deal today, right? I missed the specifics, but some kind of copyright getting sold to you later today that you’re then contracting Tim’s company to design and experiment with?” Damian gives me a slow nod over his coffee, not looking even a _little_ reassured. “So we should celebrate. Grab some dinner, maybe go to a nice club afterwards and spend some money?”

Damian’s eyes narrow a little further. “Todd, you _thrive_ on vagueness. What _kind_ of club?”

That’s the moment that Tim reappears, his jacket slung over his arm and in the middle of buttoning up his shirt all the way. “Club?” he immediately asks, as he drops his jacket over the back of the chair and devotes both hands to finishing dressing. “What are we talking about?”

“Going out to celebrate tonight,” I tell him, rolling my head back instead of actually turning towards him and away from Damian. “We should _definitely_ go out to a strip club, right?”

Damian nearly spits out his coffee, and Tim smirks as he slips around the table and leans down to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Mmm, I like that idea. I think we’re overdue for some questionable headlines.”

“ _Drake_ ,” Damian hisses. sounding a little scandalized. “You want to provide the magazines with gossip on the _same day_ this deal goes through? The headlines will already—”

“Damian, _sweetie_ ,” Tim’s smile is definitely a touch wicked, as he buttons his cuffs closed. “The deal is tech. We’re going to get headlines but no one’s going to _understand_ what it is, and they’re not going to talk about it in anything but higher circles. Getting noticed at a strip club is not going to circulate in the same groups, and we haven’t had a _scandal_ in a while anyway. We can afford one.”

“I’m not going.” His tone is stubborn, and I share a glance with Tim that shows me just how much _neither_ of us believe Damian’s going to stick to that.

“We’ll see,” is Tim’s tactful response. “Now come on, Damian, we’re going to be _late_ , remember? We keep walking in late together and they’re going to make up a scandal about us all on their own.”

I grin, relaxing back into the chair. “Drake Industries CEO having _illicit affair_ with Damian Wayne?! Read the full story below!” Damian’s expression is _glorious_ , and I lean up and coax Tim down into a kiss. “Have fun, babe. I’ll bring you lunch at one, just let me know if you want it some other time.”

“Enjoy your day,” Tim murmurs back. “You do any particularly good working out—”

“I’ll send you a picture or video,” I finish. “Get going before you’re too late for it to be _fashionable_ , Mr. Big Shot.”

Tim snags his jacket from the back of the chair and gives me a wink and a smile. “I’m _always_ fashionable.”

* * *

Of course Damian folds, and once they’re both off work and it’s suitably late we head for a club that I know. It’s not one of the high class ‘gentlemen's clubs’ where the paparazzi are always staked at the entrances looking for new victims, but something further downtown but still very _safe_. Also, very female and gays themed. Not quite at the level where if you pay a dancer enough you can do anything you like — because honestly Tim and Damian scream _money_ and they would get knifed in places like that — but one where the dancers will be a little looser about how strict they are with the ‘no touching’ rules, as long as they like you.

I used to go to much lower class ones back when I was just a guy trying to stay alive in Gotham’s underbelly however I could — honestly, I even danced a time or two when I was desperate and was young enough I could pull off that whole lean and gorgeous thing — but this place was more of a treat. The dancers are legal, the business isn’t selling drugs to anyone who walks in, and they hold the dancers to a higher level of quality in exchange for the higher cash flow that moves through there.

You’re not going to find any unshaved legs or sloppy make-up in a place like this.

It’s anything but nondescript outside — I would not be surprised to find signs in their glass-covered billboard with the dancers fully nude — and Damian looks a touch wary as our driver pulls up near the entrance. There’s a little bit of a line, but I take Tim’s hand in mine and lead the two of them right up to the front.

Damian is still in his semi-formal work outfit, minus the suit jacket and tie. Tim’s still wearing his business slacks, but he swapped to a deep green v-neck with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and _somewhere_ in the time I was cooking us all dinner managed to paint his nails a shiny black, put on bits of make-up that make his lips a touch redder and outline his eyes just enough to make them bright and _gorgeous_ , and find a single silver earring to dangle from his right ear and tinkle softly with every movement.

He also gave me the same eyeliner, after swapping my jeans to a different, less worn pair — equally loose though, which is _very_ good — and giving me a quick once over. He also spent a good amount of time pleased and smirking over the fact that in this tank-top, you can see a good couple inches of the scratches on my back before the fabric covers them.

I am _more_ than happy to be his resident bad boy arm candy.

I relax, let my mouth curl in a small grin, and stop us in front of the pair of bouncers. The one more obviously in charge — a little smaller than the other one, and leaning back against the wall instead of at the velvet rope — is already scanning Tim and Damian up and down, and it’s only when we stop that he really looks at me. Not a surprise, people working in places like this have a pretty finely tuned sense of who has money and who doesn’t.

Which is why I bring a bit of my street accent into my words when I tell him, “They’ve got the money; I’m the guide.”

Another flick of his gaze up and down Damian, and then he gives a smile and nods to the larger bouncer, who simultaneously blockades the rest of the line with his body and waves us in. As we pass by — quietly enough that no one else will hear — the one in charge leans in towards us and says, “Enjoy your night, Mr. Drake, Mr. Wayne.”

I give him a small grin back, and usher both of them into the moderately loud music of the club. It’s not the pounding bass beat of regular clubs, but just enough music to keep the attention focused on the dancers while still allowing them to speak to the ‘clients’ without shouting. Clubs like this are all about the dancers being able to coax people into private dances or extra favors, I was pretty good at that part of it in my few forays into the scene.

Inside it’s all open area; a big stage, scattered smaller tables with poles clearly meant to be danced on, a large bar, and some pretty comfortable looking armchairs sitting right next to much more classic looking stackable dining chairs. All of it’s done in black and dark reds, and it’s a few steps up from what I remember it being like. Nice upgrades. Classy enough that Tim and Damian don’t stick out like sore thumbs, even though there aren’t very many other people in semi-formal wear in here. We’re also in the minority because we’re male, and most of the crowd in here is women. That tends to happen when that’s what you cater to, and all your dancers are male as well.

Tim’s gaze immediately slides across the smaller tables, scanning dancers, as Damian’s turns towards the crowd with a certain bit of distaste clear in his eyes. Mine go to the bar, and it’s that direction that I pull the two of them with one hand intertwined with Tim’s and the other with a light grasp on Damian’s wrist. Neither of them protest me getting them through the mess of people, or right up against the bar where we get the almost _instant_ attention of one of the bartenders.

He leans right up against the opposite side of the bar, gives a charming smile, and asks, “What can I get you boys?”

I release Tim’s hand and pull Damian’s wrist up to put it on the bar, which makes him scowl just a little, but I ignore it. I also ignore the way I can see his mouth make that little ‘tt’ noise he does when irritated, even though the sound itself is too low to be heard under the music.

I smile back at the bartender, and tilt my head towards Damian. “A band for this one, he’s under twenty-one.”

The bartender winks at me, and reaches down underneath the bar. “Thanks for the heads up, sweetie. What about you?” His hand reemerges with a painfully neon orange wristband, and his gaze slips to Tim. “Or you, sweetheart?”

Tim smiles one of his equally charming, business smiles, leaning against the bar with a casual air that makes me sweep my gaze down that curve of his waist. “A Ramos Gin Fizz, please.” The bartender secures the wristband around Damian’s wrist, fingers professional, and offers up another smile towards Tim before looking at me with a silent question. “He’ll have something sweet and brightly colored,” Tim answers for me. “ _Just_ to destroy people’s expectations.”

The bartender’s expression shifts into a small grin, and he nods. “Coming right up, boys.”

I laugh as he moves away, letting go of Damian’s wrist and looping my arm around Tim’s waist to tug him in against my side. “Aw, you know how I like it when you get all take-charge on me, babe.”

Tim slides his arm around my waist in turn. “I know.” He looks past me towards Damian, who’s looking at the band around his wrist with that same faint disgust. “So, are you paying for this night or am I?”

Damian’s eyebrows slide up towards his hair, and the look he gives Tim is the most flat look of disbelief I think I’ve ever seen. “They are not _my_ drinks, Drake. Pay for your own debauchery.”

“Like you’re not going to enjoy the eye-candy,” I taunt, with a small grin. “You grab cash, Tim, or are we stopping by the ATM in the corner?” Instead of answering, Tim reaches down and procures three small stacks of cash from inside the righthand pocket of his slacks. He hands one to me, and one off to Damian, who takes it even though he looks a bit puzzled.

“Why would we need cash? I’m sure they’ll accept a credit card for the drinks.” I reach over and gently guide him to tuck the bundle away inside the pocket of his pants, and do the same for mine.

“Have you not been to a strip club before?” I ask, and Damian’s quickly averted gaze and small frown is answer enough. “Oh my god, _Tim_ , we’re taking Dami’s strip club virginity. This is _great_.”

Tim’s smile is back to looking wicked, and he slides out from underneath my arm and circles around Damian, until he’s trapped between us. “Alright, sweetie. A couple quick guidelines. Yes, you can pay for a drink with a card. You _can’t_ pay for a dancer with a card. You throw money onto the stage for dancers you like, and usually they earn a pretty good percentage of whatever is there at the end of their routine. That needs cash. Ones are the usual, a five or ten if you like them, a twenty if you _really_ like them.”

“Keep a couple ones in your hand,” I take over, “but nothing bigger. This isn’t a nasty part of town but you’ll get swarmed if the dancers realize just how rich you are. If you really like a dancer, most of them will walk around the floor when they haven’t got routines planned and you can buy lapdances, or private shows. In general, _do not touch_ unless invited. They can touch you, you can’t touch them. Also, be polite and they’re more likely to be nice to you too. General rule for you know… Life.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “But what is the _point_ , Todd? I fail to see the charm in this idea.”

Tim doesn’t even try to hide his smirk, and I stare for just a second before managing to say, “Damian, how did you even _get_ to eighteen without figuring this out? The point is to watch hot people move their bodies in hot ways while taking off almost all their clothes, and then, _sometimes_ , to pay those hot people to dance mostly naked _right on top of you_. Do you need some other reason?”

“It seems…” His mouth twitches into something like a sneer. “Undignified.”

“Yeah, no shit.” That’s about when the bartender comes back with our two drinks, and Tim exchanges them for his card with a smile. “It’s gonna be a hell of a night, Dami. You’ll have fun; promise.”

He seem unconvinced, but the bartender comes back and hands Tim his card back before leaning onto the bar in front of us. “You three actually showed up at a good time,” he says, with a nod towards the main stage. “Rick’s about to do his show; you don’t want to miss _that_ man. Get a good spot, stay tuned, and hey—” he winks “—you want anything else feel free to come right back, darlings.”

Damian lets Tim and me steer him away from the bar, as Tim’s gaze scans the room for any free seats. There’s a small cluster of one armchair and two regular ones about near the center of the place, and I follow Tim’s tug at my elbow — Damian between us — to that section. Tim takes the armchair without hesitation, and passes me my drink as I sit down. It’s a bright blue and — when I take a drink — somehow manages to taste like strawberries; not bad at all.

Tim relaxes, and I slide my chair a bit closer to his. “See anything you like?” I ask, leaning against the arm of his chair.

Tim smiles back at me. “Well, there’s _you_.” I can’t help the small grin, and he reaches up and curls his fingers into my hair to pull me down. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, and the hum of satisfaction that stays in the back of my throat is probably completely lost to the music. “A few,” he says between us, “but nothing stunning yet. Wait and watch the show?”

“Sounds good,” I answer, resisting the urge to lean back in for another kiss. “Think I should pull Damian to the stage?”

“In the middle of the crowd? You’ll freak him out.” Tim gives a soft laugh and lets me go. “Go on, babe. I’ll hold your drink; get the view you want.”

Then I can’t help myself, and I catch his mouth again for just a moment before passing him my drink and pulling away. “You’re amazing. Love you, babe.” He smiles up at me as I stand, and Damian gives me a slightly puzzled look which I brush off with a shrug. “Tim’ll explain. Have fun, Dami.”

I head for the stage, and my height and bulk lets me slide my way to the front without that much difficulty. People haven’t really started gathering yet, so there’s still some room to move and I take _full_ advantage to get right up next to the stage. People don’t usually want to get in my way, it’s a nice bonus of being tall and strong.

It’s a few minutes of waiting in front of the stage before the lights flicker, and then what has to be an announcer struts out on stage, and I bite my tongue just a bit. He’s tall, pale, and _holy shit_ the arms on this guy. Long red hair curling around his shoulders, several dark tattoos on his upper arms, and only wearing a pair of dark red leather pants.

I honestly miss whatever the hell he’s saying; I am that caught up in the way he looks and the way he emphasises whatever the fuck those words are with little rolls of his hips and cocky smirks. That guy could fuck me into next week and I would be a satisfied pile of happy goo by the end of it. I might have a bit of a thing for people legitimately stronger than me, as long as they’re _gorgeous_ on top of it.

The lights dim, and I can feel the press of people around me as they really gather. I swear to god the announcer looks right at me and _winks_ before he heads off for the back of the stage. There’s a moment of silence before the music starts, something with a thick bass beat I can almost feel in my bones but it’s… playful. Which is when two blue rolls of fabric fall from the ceiling, and a man slides right down the middle of them and sets lightly on the stage.

My reaction might be even more visceral than the one for the announcer.

He’s shirtless — solid goddamn muscle — and his skin is an olive shade, marking him as very clearly _not_ your classic mix of European white. He’s got fingerless dark blue gloves on that go up to his elbows, and skintight blue, black, and gold pants that end at his ankles and only _barely_ come up to his hips. His hair is a little shorter than Tim’s but the same deep black, and when he lifts his head and smiles it is one of the most charming, _beautiful_ things I think I’ve ever seen. It’s right up there with Tim’s smile.

My breath catches in my throat,

There’s one single moment of anticipation, the music fades, and then he springs into movement as it swells again. My eyes go wide as he flips into a handspring, back to his feet, and into another forward dive before I can do much more than blink. He’s twisting as he flies through the air, turning himself sideways and for one heart-stopping fraction of a second I think he’s going to crash right into the pole at the end of the stage. Until his hands close around it and he’s whipping his body around the pole in a circle, momentum carrying him up towards the top as he spins. I stare, and then he’s smiling and his legs are sliding around the metal, leaving him upside down with his back arched off the pole and his hands twisted around it below his head.

Another heart-stopping moment as he lets go of the pole and slides down, but his thighs clench down on the pole and stop him just a couple inches from the bottom, and the smile slips into a grin as his hands slide up his own body and his eyes close. The look on his face isn’t far from bliss, and fake or not it’s fucking _incredible_ and not much more than five feet away from me. From here I can see the dark sweeps of eyeliner framing his eyes, and when he opens them again I can see that they’re the brightest, most _impossible_ blue.

And looking right at me. I force myself to swallow, to suck in a sharp breath, and he smirks and winks before he’s moving again and the moment is over. It’s easier to breathe without him looking at me, but I’m still _completely_ captivated by the arch of his back and the way he _moves_. Even past it being ridiculously hot, it’s _impressive_. The strength in his muscles is absurd, and he’s more graceful than anyone else I’ve ever seen.

The gloves comes off first, flung towards the back of the stage as he returns to those two long furls of fabric. He uses them to get into the air, and his skin looks _gorgeous_ with that fabric wound around it. The moments where he drops are still heartstopping, but it’s just… He’s _beautiful_.

He swings out over the crowd in one direction, then the other, and finally is back on the stage itself. He struts to the front of the catwalk section, gives a playful grin, and then hooks his thumbs underneath those skintight pants and slides them right down his legs. The cheering is _deafening_ , and the stage is already littered with bills but there’s a new flood of them. He laughs, kicking the pants towards the back of the stage and then sliding forward, gaze roving over the crowd. He’s got on a pair of black underwear, but I’m almost positive they’re a thong — he hasn’t turned away from me yet — and they’re not covering much.

He’s taking bills from people’s hands — sometimes with his teeth — and really just showing off. And yeah, it’s definitely a thong.

That stutters me into action, and I push my hand into the pocket of my jeans and grab that stack of cash that Tim gave me. It feels like a crime that I have to glance down at it to fish out the bills that I want before sliding it away again, and then hold the two twenties out towards the stage. It’s only a couple of seconds before he zeroes in on it, and those blue eyes are on me again. He’s still catering to the crowd on either side of the catwalk, but when he does get to the end, he’s watching me with a smile and a light sheen of sweat to all that gorgeous skin.

For a second I think he’s about to sink down on his stomach like I’ve seen him do further up the stage, but then he twists and arches and my breath stops in my lungs as he slides right down into the splits, his back to me and his ass _right there_. I stare for a second before following the arch of his back and catching the glint of his eyes where his head is arched back. He raises an eyebrow, flicking his gaze down his own back. I catch the hint.

I reach forward, pull one string of the thong up, and slip the two twenties into it, being careful to touch his skin as little as possible. Invitation or not, he deserves respect and tempting as it is to grope him that would be pretty far beyond rude. Not going to win me any points.

He smiles, and then he’s gathering his legs back in and spinning to face me. I manage to drag in a breath as he leans in, lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “Thanks, sweetheart.” His voice is as playful and perfect as the rest of him, and I shiver as he pulls back.

I get one more wink before he’s moving away, and then my eyes catch on the inside of his right thigh as he pushes back to standing. Specifically, the black handwriting that’s neat but thicker lines. The handwriting that says _Jason_ and looks an awful lot like the way that I sign my name.

I swallow, staring at him for every second of the time he has left on the stage, as he finishes his routine. What did the bartender call him; Rick? More than likely part of a stage name, but that’s not far from _Richard_ , and my theories still stand. It _could_ be possible.

I _have_ to talk to him, or at least get close enough to see that mark again and make sure I’m not crazy.

The music ends, and he grins and waves as he slides off the stage and that redheaded announcer and a stagehand take his place. I turn to go, slipping through the crowd with just a little bit of trouble and heading back to Tim and Damian. I come out of my slight daze enough to notice that Damian’s eyes are wide and trained towards the stage, and Tim has a smile on his face that gets wider as I move closer.

Instead of sitting down, I just lean in and catch Tim’s mouth in a kiss, sliding my hands through his hair to cup his head in both hands. He gives a soft moan into it — definitely inaudible to anyone but me — and then I slowly pull back, lingering in the press of his mouth as long as possible. _Then_ I take my seat, and reclaim my drink as he hands it to me.

“That good, hm?” Tim’s smile is knowing, and I answer it with a small grin, leaning on the arm of his chair and into his space.

“He was goddamn gorgeous, wasn’t he?”

But it’s _Damian_ that answers with a low, almost awed, “ _Yes_.” Then he seems to realize what he’s said, and jerks a little bit as a dark flush slides into his cheeks. He’s almost scowling as he actually tears his gaze away from the stage to look at us, clearly embarrassed. “He was pleasant enough.”

I decide not to call Damian out on his bullshit, but I do share a glance with Tim before casually commenting, “He’s got my name on his thigh.” I take a swallow of my drink in the resulting moment of silence, and then tack on, “Wonder if his name is Richard?”

Tim, who is very open to the idea that there might be a fourth part of our circle, gives a soft laugh and leans in to pull me into a brief kiss. “ _Go_ for it, babe. Even if he’s not, I’d pay to get a closer look at him.”

Damian, who still believes that soulmates are only ever two people, rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Todd, you’re delusional. I am _not_ part of your fantasy, your relationship, or your destiny. How many times do I need to tell you that for you to believe it?”

I grin at him. “Just _one_ more, Dami. Swear.”

“Liar.”

Tim taps my shoulder with his free hand, and I follow where he’s pointing to see our dancer slipping out from what looks like a backstage entrance. He’s got a pair of black shorts on with a jagged dark blue v that definitely frames his crotch, and he’s slipping around the edge of the room as he scans the room. I start to stand, and Tim pushes me back down.

“Relax, Jason. He’ll see you. Take one more sip of that drink and then hand it over.” I obey, and Tim sets both of our drinks down to the far side of his chair. Which is about when the dancer sees us, and smiles before moving our direction. “See?”

He gets close to us, and I almost stand again to greet him before forcing myself to be still. I catch the edge of Tim’s smirk from the corner of my eye, and know that he knows exactly what I had to stop myself from doing. The dancer sweeps his gaze over me, Tim, and finally Damian before looking back at me. That’s about two seconds before he, with no hesitation, slides right onto sitting sideways on my lap, his left arm circling my shoulders. I strangle back a gasp, staring up at that playful smile as I flounder for a second, then decide to very lightly rest my fingertips on the small of his back and grab the chair with my other so I _don’t_ touch his legs.

“You know,” he starts, “normally I don’t do most of this floor work, but I just _had_ to meet someone as generous as you.” He shifts, fingers tracing along the back of my neck and his smile _bright_ as he adds on, “And _polite_ too. Keep your hands to yourself and everything.”

My words feel caught in my throat — he’s hot and right in my lap and even _more_ gorgeous up close — but luckily Tim covers for my momentary inability to speak.

“He’s very well-behaved,” Tim agrees, and I glance to the side to see him relaxed back into the armchair.

“Oh?” the dancer asks, and when I look up he’s looking at Tim too. “Did you make sure of that?” Tim’s smirk is apparently enough answer, because he laughs and curls fingers through the hair at the back of my neck, tugging just a bit. “Usually _I’m_ the one getting paid for a show, but I think I’d pay a good chunk of change to see him wound around _your_ fingers, Mr. Drake.”

Tim gives a small laugh. “Am I that obvious?”

The dancer rolls his outside shoulder in a one-sided shrug and gives a softer smile. “It pays to know your heavy hitters. I was a _little_ surprised to hear from my friend up there on stage — the MC — that _Jason Todd_ was at the end of the catwalk.” He turns in my lap, looking to Damian, who looks utterly entranced. “And _Damian_ _Wayne_ too; quite the night out for you boys, hm?”

Damian blushes, and then scowls and ducks his head.

“And he’s _shy_ ,” the dancer nearly purrs. “Don’t worry, darling; I can give you all the attention you want.” Damian flushes even darker, and the dancer laughs and turns back to Tim. “It’s actually pretty refreshing to see a couple here together; not many people can handle seeing someone else with their partner. You like to watch or just confident?”

“Both,” Tim answers easily. “In fact, I’d like to get a more private show for the three of us if you’re open. No need to watch the clock; I’ll pay for whatever time of yours we take up.”

“How could I resist?” He smiles, sliding off my lap and I have to grit my teeth for a second at the friction. Honestly, I’ve been semi-hard since that moment on the stage where he did the splits in front of me. “Even if I was doing anything, I’m free now. Follow me, boys. Feel free to bring the drinks with you.”

I am far less graceful than he is about getting to my feet, and I blindly take my drink when Tim pushes it into my hand before he’s pushing me to follow the dancer’s retreating back. Damian’s ahead of us, and Tim slides his arm around my waist and leans in to speak in my ear.

“Bit tongue-tied, Jason?”

I manage to make something like a laugh, and then vaguely gesture at the dancer’s back. “ _Yes_. I mean, _Jesus_ , he’s—”

“Yes, I have _eyes_ , Jason.” Tim’s tone is teasing, and then he presses a small kiss to my jaw. “Are you going to bring up your theory to him? If his name is Richard, it might just work. I can’t imagine many people have the kind of chicken scratch handwriting on Damian’s arm.”

My mouth curls into a small grin at the thought of Damian’s continual _irritation_ that whoever’s name is written on his arm, they have about the laziest, messiest handwriting I’ve ever seen. “Yeah, I’m gonna tell him. How pissed do you think he’s going to be?”

“The theoretical Richard or Damian?” Tim counters.

“Fair point.” I lean into Tim just a little, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. “I love you, babe.”

His smile is soft and beautiful, and I can’t help smiling right back.

The dancer guides us to a side corridor guarded by a thick, fairly intimidating bouncer that immediately slips to the side to let us pass. He says something to the bouncer, but it’s too quiet to hear and it’s not more than a couple words. He takes us down the corridor, past a few doors, to the third one on the right. He’s in first, and then pushes it closed again once we’re all inside the room.

It’s not a very big room, but it’s bigger than I expected it to be. The walls are lined with booth-style seating in a dark red, the floor is carpeted black, and there’s a small stage with a pole in the center of the room. At each corner of the room is a small table, each with a few coasters already laid out. One of those tables, towards the door, has a small stereo system that looks like it’s wired into speakers up in each top corner of the room. The lighting is a little brighter than out in the club itself, but it’s still dim in comparison to actual normal light levels. No lock to the door, but that’s probably a safety thing. Just in case of crazy customers.

“Get comfortable, boys.” He’s smiling and I take a seat at the back of the room, let Tim take my drink again and slip it onto one of the tables. Damian sits down at the other corner of that table, on the booth to the right side of the room.

The dancer moves towards the sound system, and I speak to cut him off. “So, can I ask one random question before we start anything?”

There’s a little flicker of surprise in those blue eyes, but he only gives a soft laugh and says, “Sure. Go ahead, sweetheart.”

“ _Todd_ —” Damian starts, with a warning tone.

“I don’t suppose your name is _Richard_ , is it?”

Sharp surprise, as Damian makes one of those annoyed little hisses, and I can see little hints of wary body language before he asks, “What would make you think that?”

Instead of actually laying out my theory, I reach up and hook fingers over the top of my shirt and pull it down to bare the dark ‘Timothy’ over my heart. “So, meet Tim…” Tim catches on, turning his head and sweeping his hair out of the way to show the lines of Arabic writing. “Damian…”

“You are _insane_ , Todd. This is completely ridiculous, and impossible, and—”

“ _Damian_ ,” Tim says with a hard note of command, raising one eyebrow.

Damian meets the look for a second, but then looks down and slowly grudgingly, unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve and rolls it up to his elbow. Then, with a last glare at the both of us, turns his arm so we can all see the scrawl of the name written from the underside of his wrist almost all the way up to his elbow.

“And Richard,” I finish, looking back up at the dancer.

He seems frozen, but then he’s slipping across the room and taking Damian’s wrist in gentle fingers, raising his arm. He stares for a long couple of seconds, and then lets go and steps back. “Usually I go by Dick,” is his answer, as he looks back at me. “So, you think…?”

“It’s a theory.” I reach over, take Tim’s hand and squeeze it. “I’ve _never_ doubted that he’s my soulmate, and I don’t care what his mark says. There’s a _feeling_ you get when it’s right; something clicks. We’ve both been open to the idea that there might be a Richard out there with my name on him, and that it might be possible that we’re not as cut and dry as most of the world.” I give a crooked grin. “Damian thinks I’m nuts, but what about you? Think this whole thing is crazy?”

Dick pushes out a long breath, and then sits down on the stage in the middle of the room. “Not as crazy as you might think. I have… I have a friend who had a drunk one night stand with a woman, and she came back a year later with a daughter whose name matched his mark. He had it tattooed over to stop anyone spreading rumors, and he loves that girl more than anything else in the world. Things aren’t always simple.”

One of his hands rises, rakes back through his hair as he sighs. Then he gives a small laugh, and a smile. “You know, I’ve met a decent handful of ‘Jason’s, but none of them have ever actually been decent people. So what the hell? I’ll give it a shot.” His smile turns to a grin. “Gotta say, I usually don’t jump into the idea of _forever_ before the first date. What did you have in mind?”

Tim laughs, Damian scoffs, and I grin right back.

“How about we say ‘dinner’ and start there, Dick?” I squeeze Tim’s hand again, shoot him a glance so I can see his smile. “You know, he’ll attest that I’m not that bad a cook.”

“He’s being modest. Jason’s a _wonderful_ cook.”

“ _Tim_ —”

“Hush,” Tim orders, and then leans in and brushes his lips over mine. I close my eyes for a moment so I can savor that touch before he pulls away. “You’re a wonderful cook, Jay. Fact, not opinion, and Damian will agree.” He turns to look at Dick again. “Join us for dinner at our place? If you’re willing I can have someone pick you up, or just give you the address. Your decision, of course.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dick agrees. “Should be interesting.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the second chapter of these shenanigans! XD This time, featuring Dick PoV. Enjoy!

I am in _so_ over my head. Like, to the point where I'm not even sure it's funny anymore.

Getting picked up by a sleek black car that looked like it belonged in a neighborhood about a hundred times more expensive than mine was the first hint of that. Having an actual _driver_ open the door for me with a polite smile was one of the weirder things of my life, and my life is pretty strange in general, but it didn't compare to getting dropped off in front of an enormous, glass and steel skyscraper of a building that I'm pretty sure is apartments. Or to the way the driver smiled, extending a hand towards the door — which has a uniformed man standing in front of it — with a few soft words.

"The code for the elevator is thirty-six ninety-two, sir. Just tell him you have an appointment with Mr. Drake."

An _appointment_. God this is strange.

The car pulls away from behind me, and I swallow and try not to panic too badly. It's a weird thing to use it for, but I pull in a deeper breath, take another glance up at the dizzying height of the building, and firmly repeat what I always used to say to myself before getting on stage. Back when I actually used to get nervous.

They're just people. None of them have the right to judge me, not unless I let them, and their opinion of me doesn't matter. I chose to be here.

Slipping into the persona of 'Rick' is easy enough after all the practice I've had at it, and that makes it a whole lot easier to just start moving forward. The smile comes easily to my expression, and I pause in front of the doorman, who looks like he's considering what I'm wearing and getting ready to toss me back out on my ass. That is totally fair, considering I'm wearing the nicest things I have and I still look a few million too cheap to be in this place.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Drake," I say, as the driver told me to. And then add, belatedly, "And Mr. Todd and Mr. Wayne too, technically."

That gets a tiny flicker of a smirk from the doorman, and this time I recognize the little flick of his gaze down my frame and back up it. This is one of those times where I wonder if I give off some kind of vibe that says 'hey, I get naked for money' or if people just assume it and happen to be right. Because I have gotten _that look_ more times than I'm strictly comfortable with. Or, maybe it's that I clearly don't have money and what other reason would I have for a private meeting with two of the richest men in Gotham and one of their boyfriends. Hard to say.

"Of course, sir," the doorman says, with a slightly more professional smile. He opens the door, and doesn't say another word as I step through it.

And if the outside of the building looked impressive, the inside is actually somewhat bland. It's large and open, with polished marble flooring and a desk that looks like the reception for some kind of insanely expensive hotel. Which I guess this is in a way. I mean, I assume that they live here, at least mostly. Unless I'm getting shuffled off to some side building because they don't want me in their actual home, which unfortunately doesn't sound as paranoid as it probably should.

I _do not belong_.

I take another deep breath, ignore the look I get from the man at the reception, and head for the elevator set into the right wall. My footsteps sound painfully loud against the floor, and I wince and try to ignore it. The man at the reception desk doesn't stop me from pressing the button for the elevator, and almost instantly it slides open with a soft ding. I _don't_ look back as I step inside and turn to the panel for the floors, scanning up it as I double check my memory. Tim said it was the top floor that was his — and oh my _god_ , a whole _floor?_ — so that's the button I press. The doors slide shut, and the elevator rises with a nearly soundless whir and tug of motion.

I take the moment of preparation to steady myself, waiting as it rises, and rises, and then finally slows and stops. Then the display for the floor flashes, catching my attention, and prompts me to enter a code. With just a bit of nervousness, I put in the number the driver told me to. Thirty-six, ninety-two. It dings again, and then the door slides open.

I almost back out, but manage to steel myself and step out of the elevator into a narrow corridor with a single door opposite me. I rub my hands down my jeans to try and get rid of any sweat, hearing the elevator shut and leave, and take another steadying breath before I step forward and press the button beside the door that looks a lot like a doorbell. My breath leaves me in a rush when I hear the faint resounding of the tone from inside the door, and I have to take another one to keep myself standing there.

This whole thing is… It's utterly crazy. I'm crazy for even considering it.

Me? Soulmates with not just the tabloid-famous Jason Todd, but his billionaire partner Timothy Drake, and their equally rich friend Damian Wayne? There's no way that could be true, could it? But I've always wondered who the 'Jason' across the inside of my thigh belongs to, and… and Mr. Wayne — _Damian_ — has my name.

It's insane, but it makes a certain kind of sense.

The door pulls open, and I yank my gaze up to meet the blue-green eyes looking down at me. It feels seriously juvenile, but I can actually feel my breath catch a little bit when Jason smiles, lips curling crooked and something warm and welcoming in his expression. Considering he's at minimum six feet, with a serious amount of muscle and more than a little bit of a rough edge, it's kind of startling that he can pull off looking _soft_.

"Made it here after all," he teases, and then shifts aside and tilts his head. "Come on in."

I take the invitation, stepping inside and then just stopping and staring.

It's _huge_ , easily double the size of the club I work at without even counting what must be behind the half-open doors, and the entire far wall is just open window. There are some half walls, things set up that are clearly meant to serve as dividers, but it's mostly just _open_. Everything in the place is artful, _perfect_ in a way that feels like money, but not like the _excess_ of money I know it actually is. There's practically no art, or sculptures, or anything else in the way of display, just nice furniture and clean lines. Despite that, it still feels like an actual home. Against the black, white, and soft gold and brown patterns, there are these splashes of color. Flowers and colorful fabrics in rich color draped over tables. The potted plants, the almost full rack of DVDs beside the frankly enormous TV, the scattered bookshelves, and the set of weights pushed into one corner all scream that someone does actually live here.

The click of the door jars me out of staring, and I manage to pull my gaze away from all of it.

"This is _really_ nice," I get out, turning to look up as Jason steps up beside me.

He smiles again, one of his hands rising to rub at the back of his neck. "Thanks," he murmurs, "I uh, actually did most of it myself. Tim's—” He snorts, gives a small grin. "He's got a hell of an eye for fashion, but he's not so great with internal design. Doesn't care enough. After awhile, I kinda figured that if I was going to be here most of the time, I probably had the right to make it somewhere I actually really liked being."

"You did this?" I ask, taking another look around.

"Well, I mean, the floor plan and everything was already set, but I moved furniture and stuff, yeah. Gave away pieces that didn't fit, got new stuff…” A small laugh, and an almost sheepish grin. "And tried to make it look a little less like a war zone. If you stick around long enough you'll figure out that Tim is pretty much a _mess_ when it comes to anything that isn't directly on his own body or related to work."

I smile back, and then ask, "Speaking of?"

"Oh! Yeah, their last meeting ran a little late, so Tim is—” he flicks a hand towards the partially open door halfway across the room on the right, "— in the shower, probably just finishing up now, and Damian's still down a floor in his own place, probably swapping clothes. Or just panicking, honestly. He's a little bit freaked out about you, by the way. He'll get over it. So, you're welcome to take a look around, or just join me in the kitchen until they get here. Shouldn't be more than ten minutes or so, at max."

"Think I'll stick with you," I manage, and Jason gives another of those soft smiles and beckons me with one hand, leading me towards the immediate left corner of the room. It's partially blocked off by half walls and counters, but he slides in like he belongs, heading for the stove, which has several lidded pans on it.

I follow, and my attention gets caught by the shift of muscle in Jason's shoulders in the half circle of skin left bare by the dark red tank-top he's wearing. Now that I can look at something apart from the apartment, and Jason's smile, I can actually notice that Jason looks pretty damn good. His feet are bare, legs covered by a pair of black jeans that are tight in _all_ the right places, and outside of the dim lighting of the club I can actually see the breadth of his shoulders, the muscle in his bare arms, and the inwards dip of his waist. He's definitely in shape.

Then I catch sight of the lines of scratches on his back, and my mouth curves into a small grin.

"Those are new," I point out, with a flick of my hand towards his back when he looks over at me.

He seems surprised for a moment. Then he laughs, and god help me but his laugh actually hits a chord deep in my gut and my breath catches again. Alright, this is ridiculous. Hot as hell, pretty smile, and low laugh aside, Jason's just a guy. I mastered my reactions to guys a long time ago. For god's sake, I can get hard practically on cue and am _really_ good at never doing it when I don't want to. I work next to gorgeous, mostly naked guys all night long, whose literal business is to sell what they look like. I should _not_ be so tripped up by a little laughter and a smile.

But then Jason smiles right at me, my gut clenches anyway, and I can't help but smile back. His gaze is just a little distant as it falls to the counter, and there's something gentle in his expression, something warm and probably not actually aimed at me because it looks a lot like _love_. Then he shakes it off, and takes in a small breath as he glances up at me and then to the food cooking on the stove.

"I uh, don't really know what your comfort levels are," he tells me, as he grabs for a wooden spoon out of a jar full of them and then starts to stir something that smells _really_ damn good. "I know where you work and all that, but I know who people are at work usually doesn't have anything to do with who they are in private. So fair warning, Tim and I tend to talk about just about anything, sometimes in detail. If you want us to stop just let us know, otherwise you should probably assume that any questions are going to get answered maybe with more information than you actually wanted."

I give a small laugh, leaning against the counter to watch him work. "Thanks for the heads up. So do you mind if I just, ask you whatever comes into my head then?"

"Go for it. We're open books." Then he looks over at me, offers another soft smile. "Especially for you."

That stuns me for a moment, and it takes me another couple to really process that I've just been given free rein to ask anything I want to. So it takes more than a bit for me to realize that Jason is staring, and to meet his eyes again. He actually blushes a bit, looking down in clear embarrassment.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I thought that uh, with all your clothes on you might be a little less... _arresting_ , and I was totally wrong." His gaze meets mine, and that embarrassed tinge is still around but he's smiling through it. "You're kind of unbelievably gorgeous, but I guess you know that."

"It's still nice to hear," I reassure him, "especially from someone who _isn't_ paying to see me mostly naked." The way he turns his gaze back to the food is almost shy, and I take a second to study his profile. The careless ruffle to his hair, the bangs that curl down over some of his forehead, almost getting in his eyes. The _ease_ that he handles the food with, like he's done this a million times.

"You're not at all what I expected," I comment, keeping my voice soft. "From what's in the tabloids—”

"I'm the kept bad boy?" he finishes, and then looks up at me with a little smirk. "Yeah, not so much. I guess printing stories about me and my bad influence sells more papers than telling the world that I'm basically Tim's housewife. None of them bother to actually figure out the truth."

"That doesn't bother you?"

He shrugs, flipping the heat on one pan to something much lower before covering it again. "I got over caring what strangers think of me. They all pretty much either think I'm a gold-digger or that Tim's using me, with the occasional jab at me being 'hopelessly in love' with Tim and trying to defy destiny to stay with him. The morons can kiss my ass."

I wince, then take a look around at the apartment. "Well, if you were a gold-digger this would be a _hell_ of a catch. It's… a lot." I mean for it to come out teasing, but with the way he looks at me it must have been more serious than I intended.

After a moment of silence, he sucks in a sharp little breath, eyes widening a touch. " _Oh_."

"What?" I ask, maybe a little bit defensively.

Jason shakes his head, eyes closing. "Sorry, I should have…” He looks up, and there's a small smile on his face that actually looks a bit sad. "I get it," he murmurs. "That feeling you've got in the pit of your stomach? That little voice in the back of your head? Yeah; been there. I know it's pointless to say it, but you don't have to feel that way."

I don't say anything at first, and then I manage a low, "Yeah?"

He turns the other pans down, and then turns to face me. "How much do you know about me?"

"Not much. I don't actually pay much attention to news."

Jason gives a small hum of sound, gaze falling back towards the counter. "Well, I grew up in Old Gotham. Crime Alley, specifically, and on the streets after I was…” His head tilts back, eyes narrowing. "Jesus," he mutters, "ten? Ten, I think. Anyway, the point is that going from that, to this…?" He gestures vaguely around at the apartment. "Trust me, I get what it feels like to feel out of place. I could barely bring myself to even touch anything in here for weeks, and it probably took close to a year for it to actually feel like home."

He gives a huff of breath, an almost bitter curl of his mouth. "Surprised you didn't know, honestly. Seems like every article even mentioning me takes a jab at where I'm from.”

"Crime Alley?" I echo, trying to digest that. " _Jesus_. I… I'm sorry, I've never been down there but I've heard… I've heard some really awful things."

"They're probably true," he says frankly. "Don't apologize; it's not like you had anything to do with it. It's all over and done with now anyway. I got out alive, and I ended up—” He laughs, looks around again. " _Fuck_ , I ended up _here_ of all places. That makes me one hell of a lot luckier than most people down there."

Jason takes in a slightly deeper breath, glances over at the pots and pans on the stove. "So, what about you? How'd you end up stripping in Gotham? College debts or something?"

I can't help the tiny burst of laughter, before I cover my mouth. "No, no college. I—” I wince, draw in a deeper breath with a small smile. "So, _here's_ a weird thing for you. I grew up in a traveling circus. There was an… an accident when I was nine, and I ended up with a Gotham foster family. They were in it for the government subsidiaries, so we were never really close. And, well, it turns out when you've only got average grades, no real family, you're not from Gotham, and your only past experience is _circus_ work…”

Jason snorts. "No one hiring, right? Yeah, been there too."

I give another smile, a shrug. "I got lucky too. The MC from the club? With the red hair and tattoos?" Jason nods, and yeah, I recognize the little flare of hunger in his eyes. "His name's Roy, he's one of my best friends and I've known him since high school. When I hit eighteen, and the foster family kicked me out, he got me the job. Even let me stay at his place for a couple months until I had enough to get my own apartment."

"And you just kept doing it?"

"It works for me," I explain. "I've got the looks, the skill, it's a lot of money, and I've been dealing with crowds since I was a kid. I know how. For the most part, I enjoy it, and the jackasses…” I give a wider smile. "I can handle them."

Jason smiles back, his gaze dipping for a moment to scan over my arms and chest. "Yeah, I bet you can. Got any fighting skills to go with the fancy flips and the muscle?"

Before I can answer that there's the sound of a door closing, and I turn my head in the direction of the noise. It's at the opposite side of the apartment, the door that Jason initially gestured to when he said that Tim was still showering. It's actually Mr. Drake that's crossing the apartment. He's barefoot as well, in a pair of skintight black yoga pants paired, a little oddly, with a semi-formal white shirt. But the way he _smiles,_ warm and charming, seems to tie it all together. I smile back without thinking about it, as he slides a hand through still-damp hair and shakes it out.

"Dick, you made it."

I duck my head a little bit as he slips into the kitchen, on the other side of the table in the middle of it. "Mr. Drake."

Jason snorts, and Tim smiles. "Please, it's just Tim. And Damian is just Damian, even if he might like it if you called him _Mr. Wayne_. He not up yet?"

"Should be any minute," Jason answers, as Tim loops around the table to his side. One arm comes up, circling around Tim's shoulders and tugging him in. "Hey, babe."

Tim smiles back, leans in and up and my chest lights with a soft warmth as they share a kiss. It's so _easy_ to see the love between them. So easy to allow myself to want to be a part of it, especially when that's just being _offered_ to me. To have that kind of love aimed my way? That would be a kind of heaven I've never had before. A kind I'm not sure I ever knew existed.

The look in their eyes… The only other person that I've seen with that kind of love in his eyes is Roy, and all of that is for Lian.

Is this the kind of love that comes with being soulmates? Is Jason's theory _true?_ Could it possibly be true?

Jason draws back a touch, still smiling, and then gently nudges Tim away from his side as he turns back to the stove. Tim moves towards me and I stay still as he stops in front of me, leans up and I _almost_ pull away before his lips brush my cheek. Then he takes a half a step back, smiles up at me.

"Welcome to our home. Relax, get comfortable. Would you like a drink?"

"Maybe," I answer, still feeling the ghost of the chaste kiss almost like it's lingering there. "Can I be blunt for a second?" Jason grins, but doesn't look over, and Tim quirks an eyebrow in obvious interest and nods. "How graphic is this night going to get?" Jason actually snorts, and I give a small smile, refusing to be embarrassed. "I usually like to stay fully sober when I'm with someone. So if we're going to stay PG, then sure, I'd love a drink. But if not…”

Jason turns the heat off on the pans, then turns his small grin towards me. "How about we stick with just talking tonight? Damian's never going to go for more on a first date; wouldn't want to scare him off."

Tim smirks, heading around Jason, and I follow his path with my gaze. "Damian doesn't seem the type to scare," I comment. "Irritate, probably."

"Getting the hang of him already." Jason's tone comes out teasing, and then Tim gives a small shrug and takes over.

"The family he has on his mother's side are old fashioned. _Very_ old fashioned. Frankly, he's lucky they couldn't find someone with the handwriting to match his mark or he'd probably have been married off before he ever even met the other side of his family.” Tim smiles as he pulls dishes from the hanging cabinets. “We’ve spent a couple years easing him out of how he was raised, but he’s going to be a little shy about all of this. The one thing you’ll learn about Damian is that you can’t _make_ him do anything; you’ve gotta make him think that he decided to do it on his own.”

I lean my weight a little more firmly against the counter. “It sounds like you guys have got it all figured out.”

Jason gives another grin. “We got a repressed, millionaire, eighteen year old into a strip club that _didn’t_ ooze money from every corner, didn’t we? Yeah, we got it.”

There’s a sharp knock on the front door, and I look towards it in time to catch it open slightly.

“If either of you are still undressed I swear I will _maim_ both of you,” Damian snarls, as he steps into the apartment and then closes the door behind him.

I have to choke back a burst of laughter, and Tim smirks and turns around to press his low back to the counter and look at Damian. “Dami, we have a _guest_.”

Damian is still glaring a bit, but he’s circling the raised counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the room. “Well, your _guest_ happens to make a living taking his clothing off, so my threat was hardly outside the realm of possibility.”

“ _Damian_ ,” Jason intercedes, his voice dropping about an octave with warning. “Be nice. He’s _our_ guest — all three of us — and he’s not used to your bullshit like we are so don’t scare him off.”

“It’s alright,” I say with a smile, “I’ve heard a lot worse.”

“Hearing a lot worse doesn’t mean it’s alright,” Jason counters, and then turns narrowed eyes back to Damian. “Damian…”

“ _Alright_ ,” the teenager snaps, and then crosses his arms and looks at me. “My apologies.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes my throat. “I think that was probably the most grudging apology I’ve ever heard.”

Damian _bristles_. “I don’t see the _point_ ,” he almost hisses. “If your theory is even _vaguely_ correct, Todd, then I could not scare him off if I tried. Why should I bother apologizing for the truth, anyway?”

Jason’s eyes narrow a little further, and I find myself straightening up off the counter and reassuring him, “It’s alright, Jason. Really, it’s okay. I’m not ashamed of my job.” Then I look towards Damian, standing at the other side of the table and nearly outright glaring at me. “You’re quite the piece of work aren’t you?” Another bristle, he opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “Not an insult. Actually, I think it’s kinda cute.”

I finish off the comment with a wink and a playful smile, and almost have to laugh again when he blushes, sharp and vivid, like I flipped a switch.

Tim _does_ laugh; a semi-strangled snort that gives way to muffled giggles. I keep my eyes on Damian, watching him scowl Tim’s direction, and then offer him my hand.

“Dick Grayson.”

After a moment just staring, he circles the rest of the table and uncrosses his arm so he can shake my hand. “Damian Wayne.”

He’s actually about an inch taller than me, even though I’m sure I outweigh him, and I offer him one of my best smiles and a lingering squeeze of his hand. “Trust me, I know. It’s good to meet you. Officially.”

Damian lets go of my hand after another moment and gives a curt nod, but I’ve spent a good portion of my life reading people’s moods, and for me it’s easy to see that he’s not nearly as disinterested and hostile as he’s acting. It was the same way in the club.

“Wait.” I turn back towards Tim, whose studying me with just slightly narrowed eyes. “Grayson? That’s not as in the _Flying Graysons_ is it?”

My breath catches in my throat. “Yeah,” I manage. “Yeah, it is.”

Tim _smiles_ , and it’s warm and soft and real. “I went to one of your performances when I was a kid,” he says quietly. “Well, the circus performance anyway. You took a picture with me, promised to do this trick for me, a…” His eyes narrow a little bit. “God, what was it? A— A—”

“Quadruple somersault,” I say in sync with him, and end up smiling even as I admit, “I think I vaguely remember that? I met a lot of people.”

Tim doesn’t look even remotely disappointed by that news. “You know, I think I still have that picture somewhere.”

“Really?” I ask, and my voice comes out sounding quiet and hopeful. To see an actual memory of my time at the circus? That would be… It’s been a long time since I’ve had any real memories of that whole section of my life. A photo or two that I haven’t looked at in months, and the odd visit to my parents’ graves when life is particularly hard.

“And you can look for it after dinner,” Jason breaks in, with a smile aimed first at Tim and then at me. “Food first, before it gets cold.”

“God forbid,” Tim teases, and then reaches out and catches Jason’s hand. “So, what did you make?”

Jason grins, draws in a deep breath, and starts, “Well…”

* * *

Dinner is _amazing_. I’m honestly not sure I’ve had food as good as Jason’s literally in my entire life. That also means that it’s pretty quiet, because when you’ve got good food in front of you, no one wants to interrupt that with talking.

I resist the urge to go back for seconds, and then Jason _notices_ me resisting and gets up with a grin to take my plate. “What do you want?” he asks, and almost helplessly I just tell him. He does the same thing for Tim and Damian, the latter with some snapped insistence that Damian doesn’t _need_ Jason to serve him like some child.

Jason ignores it, and I find myself smiling through the whole thing.

By the time we’re all actually full there’s a lazy kind of satisfaction in the air. We all stay sitting for a little while, before Jason pushes back from the table and moves to start clearing dishes. Automatically, I get up to help him.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he immediately says. “You’re the guest.”

“And you cooked,” I shoot back. “If any of us shouldn’t be doing the clean up it’s _you_.” I pair it with a small, pointed look at the two still-seated members of our group.

Damian rolls his eyes, arms crossing again. “Todd does not appreciate it when I interfere with the running of his kitchen.”

“Damian’s got a point,” Tim says, with a small smirk. “Jason? Do you want us cleaning up your kitchen?”

Jason laughs, giving a crooked grin as well. “Oh _hell_ no. I remember what happened the last time you tried to put a load of dishes away, Tim. I couldn’t find my favorite pan for _weeks_.”

Tim pushes away from the table, stretching over the back of the chair for a moment before getting to his feet. “In my defense,” he aims towards me, “I was _very_ sleep deprived.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason says, still grinning. “Yeah, I remember _that_ too.” He tilts his head, looking over at me as he points towards Tim. “He’s not allowed to go for more than two days without sleeping anymore. Things gets really strange.”

“Oddly,” Damian chimes in, “though all the paperwork was adorned with illegible scribbles and nonsensical notes, he did finish everything due in the next two weeks, for both of us.” He aims a sharp glance at Tim. “I am still not positive where you learned to forge my signature.”

“It’s on the back of my _neck_ ,” Tim points out, and then leans up towards Jason for a kiss. Jason obligingly leans down, and they linger for a moment before Tim draws away and gives me a soft smile. “I’ll go find that picture,” he promises.

Damian pushes away from the table, standing and making an irritated sounding click of his tongue. “I shall accompany Drake; he is just as likely to get lost in his own files as find anything of importance.”

“Brat,” Tim comments as he walks past.

“Caffeine-driven trainwreck,” Damian counters, and follows him.

I smile at their backs, not bothering to even try to stop it. I don’t think I’ve been this relaxed and happy for a long time, except maybe with Roy, but with him there’s always the extra addition of Lian. She’s adorable, but she’s absolutely not conducive to relaxation. But here, with Damian, Tim, and Jason, I just feel amazingly comfortable.

It’s a strange dynamic between the three of them, but it seems to really work. I can see where Jason got this idea about other soulmates, if they’ve always had this kind of easy back and forth between them.

When they’ve both vanished into a doorway that I can’t even guess at the contents of, I turn back to Jason. He’s watching too, and there’s this soft, sweet smile on his face. It slips away when he gets back to clearing up, gathering things up with a clearly practiced hand. I almost get in his way more than I actually help, but he seems more amused than anything else. Eventually he takes over completely, rinsing the dishes with the dishwasher open between us so he can fit everything into it.

I watch for a minute or so, before gathering the courage to ask, “How do you know?”

Jason looks up, one eyebrow raised in question. “Know what?”

“That you and Tim are soulmates.” I give a small shrug. “I mean, no offense, but it’s not your name on him. That’s a _hell_ of a leap of faith to take. How did… How did you know?”

Jason’s gaze lowers to the dishes, and he stays silent. After a few moments, he finally gives a crooked little smile and a soft laugh. “You know, there’s a romantic answer to all that but the truth is that I didn’t. We didn’t get into this relationship expecting anything; we both knew we didn’t match but, well, after awhile we decided ‘what the hell?’, and figured we’d give it a shot anyway.”

“What happened?”

His gaze is lingering on the counter, halfway between the two of us. “I— We kissed, and it felt like… It felt like for that moment, the whole world just clicked into place. Everything was right, and I just _knew_.” He smiles, slow and almost embarrassed when he looks up at me. “It still feels that way, honestly.”

“All the time?” I tease, and he laughs again.

“Well, it can get kind of eclipsed by _other things_ , but just in a moment like that? Yeah, it’s all the time.” He turns back to the dishes, but his smile lingers. “If I’m right, and everyone’s willing to give it a try, you’ll feel it too. Even if I’m not, you’ll find another Jason someday, and you’ll feel it then.”

I lean a little bit more on the counter, and admit, “That sounds really nice.”

“There’s nothing like it in the world,” he agrees, in a voice that’s barely above a whisper.

I watch Jason set the last of the dishes away into the dishwasher, and then ease it closed with just a couple of soft rattles of the dishes inside. He rinses the sink clear, dries his hands on a towel hooked over a bar on the cabinet near his hip, and then brushes down his shirt. Then he looks up, focused on something over my shoulder, and I turn to look as well. Tim and Damian are coming back out from inside that room, shoulders close and a laptop in Tim’s hands.

“Is it like that for everyone?” I ask quietly, glancing back at Jason.

He pauses for a moment, watching me with just a little bit of confusion. Then admits, “I don’t know. I’ve uh, never actually asked Tim about it. I know he feels _something_ ; I just assumed it was the same thing I do.” Then he gives a small grin, leaning slightly sideways and calls past me, “Tim!” Tim stops and turns, one eyebrow raised. “What do you feel when I kiss you?”

“Todd!” Damian snaps, full of shocked offense. I muffle a laugh behind my hand, as Jason grins and Tim smirks back, both of them clearly enjoying the moment. Damian flicks a dismissive hand with a sneer, grabs the laptop from under Tim’s arm, turns on his heel, and throws, “The two of you are uncouth _savages_ ,” over his shoulder as he stalks towards the couch.

Jason snickers, moving past me towards Tim. I follow more slowly, giving them the time to come together, one of Jason’s arms sliding around Tim’s shoulders and the other tilting his jaw up to brush their lips together. I watch the ease they fit together, and the smile that slides across Jason’s lips when they part.

Tim hums satisfaction, curling underneath Jason’s arm as his gaze rises to meet mine. “It feels like…” A pause, as his eyes rise and he considers. “Like weight in my legs, holding me safe on the ground while the rest of the world disappears.”

“Really?” Jason asks, softly, and Tim’s head twists up towards him.

“Yeah, what about you?”

As Jason smiles, leaning down to whisper in Tim’s ear, I slip around them and towards the couch where Damian has the laptop open. I only catch a couple of words from Jason as I pass by, but I do hear Tim’s surprised, pleased sound even as I reach the couch and sit down. Damian shoots me a slight _look_ , and I smile in response and shift myself a little bit closer. He glares at me, but there’s no real bite to the expression so I ignore it.

“Can I?” I explain my question by pointing to the laptop, and Damian’s eyes narrow a little more.

“Look at confidential business files?” he snaps, and then a moment later, when I don’t give up my smile, shoves out a sigh. “Fine.”

When he doesn’t hand me the laptop, I scoot over until I’m nearly pressed against his side, leaning in so I can see the laptop’s screen. I kind of expect to get snapped at, but instead Damian glances up at me and _oh boy_ I can see the buried, tightly leashed desire in his gaze. More than anything Jason or Tim have aimed at me, even with Jason’s much more blatant looks from the club. But the next second Damian looks away again, back down at the screen. So, just to see what will happen, I shift a bit more over until my shoulder is actually pressed up against his.

I can actually feel the warmth bleeding through our shirts and into my arm, and when he glances up again I give him one of my better smiles. Slow, curling, with a downwards flicker of my eyes to bring my lashes into play.

Damian sucks in a sharp breath, blushes, and then jerks his head back around to look down at the laptop’s screen. I resist exhaling over the side of his neck, carefully reining in all of my almost automatic seductive behaviors.

It might be fun, and it might be a first step in this eventual goal of getting Damian to give this soulmate thing a try, but I don’t want to make him nervous. At least not nervous in a bad way. I’m pretty sure the nerves he’s got right now are closer to that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling, which are always nerve-wracking but usually in a hopeful kind of a way. I can work with that.

“So what are you looking through?” I ask, keeping my voice low and just between us.

Even without me breathing over his neck, Damian twitches in a minuscule little shiver. I try not to let my mouth curl into the grin that it wants to.

“Digitally imported pictures,” he answers, his voice not as low as mine. “When computers became the main storage media, Drake had all his physical pictures copied into digital files just in case anything occurred. Luckily, for all his shortcomings, Drake _does_ organize things very systematically. Everything is labeled by event and date. Do you know either of those things?”

“Try ‘Flying Graysons,’ ” I suggest. “Or ‘Haly’s Circus.’ ”

Damian types in my name first, and then scowls at the slow progress of the search bar. “The _unfortunate_ bit is that Drake fancied himself a photographer as a child and so there are _thousands_ of photos.” His head lifts, looking past me, and he snaps, “Why did you not pair all of these down, Drake? This is _excessive_.”

I follow Damian’s gaze to find Tim and Jason moving towards us, and follow them as they circle around and drop down on Damian’s other side. Tim is closer, with Jason on the outside, though his arm stretches along the back almost all the way to me.

“I _did_ ,” Tim says, with a little smile, before he looks at me. “What Damian isn’t saying is that I was really good at it. I’ve got a few more amateur collections for sale, somewhere or other. I think I sold the originals a while back, once I transferred everything over to digital. At least, most of them. If the picture of us isn’t on here, I’m sure I’ve got the physical copy somewhere. It just might be a bit of a project to actually _find_ it.”

Damian clicks his tongue at the lack of search results, and then clears the entire thing. “Drake, what was the date?”

Tim’s eyes narrow, and then he says it and my breath catches hard in my throat. All three of them look at me as I stare, and Tim looks a bit apologetic.

“You were there,” I breathe, and I get twin looks of confusion from Damian and Jason even as Tim nods.

“I didn’t want to remind you if I could avoid it,” he answers. “For what it’s worth, before… what happened, that was one of the best nights of my childhood.”

I blow out a breath, swallowing, and then manage a small smile. “I’m glad it was a good night for someone.” Then I meet the gazes of the other two members of the group and tilt my head a bit as I give a lopsided shrug. “My family worked without a net, it was part of the draw. That night, one of the ropes snapped. Happened just like that; I was lucky I wasn’t on the ropes when it did.”

“Jesus,” Jason murmurs. “Sorry.”

Damian’s response is more formal, but no less sincere. “That is unfortunate.”

“It was a long time ago,” I say, with a slightly more real smile. “It’s fine.”

“Here,” Tim starts, leaning into Damian’s space to take control of the laptop. Damian makes a slightly offended face, but doesn’t actually stop Tim from scrolling down the search result, all marked with that date, until he’s close to the bottom. Then he pauses, double clicks on one of them, and my breath catches again.

“Well look at that,” Jason says, with a crooked little smile. “The two of you were fucking adorable even then.”

“Jason,” Tim playfully reprimands, “Neither of us are _adorable_ now. For myself, I much prefer ‘cute’ or ‘gorgeous.’ ”

I’m caught staring at the photo. It’s me in the bright colors of my old acrobat uniform, kneeling down with a smaller kid balanced on my knee. Both of us have got massive grins, and what must be Tim has wide, excited eyes that make him look ready to fly right off the ground. We’re both looking up towards whoever was taking the picture, and what I know is the fabric of the circus tent is in the background. I can match it to a very vague memory of an excited little boy all but _charging_ at me to get that picture, but I don’t remember much else about it.

It’s a bittersweet sort of memory, like all of my earliest ones, but it’s definitely welcome. Any memory of my young life, and everything connected to it, is welcome.

“What about you, Dick?”

I pull my head up with a very intelligent, “Hm?” They’re looking at me again, and I offer a small grin. “What are we talking about?”

“Words you prefer over being called ‘adorable,’ ” Tim explains.

“Oh!” I let my grin go crooked, let my eyelids lower a touch so I can peer through my lashes as I tease, “ _Hot_.”

Tim bursts into laughter, quickly hidden behind one of his hands, as Damian goes wide-eyed and Jason grins right back.

“Well you’re sure as hell _that_ ,” Jason agrees, and then his grin turns wicked and he continues, “Don’t you think so, Damian?”

Damian sputters, blushing bright and avoiding my gaze. “ _Todd_ ,” he finally snarls, still blushing but glaring daggers too.

“Alright, alright.” Jason holds his hands up in mock surrender, but his grin doesn’t even _start_ to go away. “But I’m totally right, just for the record.”

“Then it would be for the first time,” Damian snaps right back.

“Easy, boys,” Tim intervenes, finally controlling his laughter. He smiles past Damian, towards me, and promises, “I’ll get you a copy of that picture. Later, we can trade information, figure it out?”

My smile comes to my lips with a thoughtless ease, and I dip my head a bit. “Sounds good. _Thank_ you.”

“Of course.” Then he twists back to Jason, leaning into the space beneath his arm. “So, are there any other plans for tonight, Jason, or are we flying blind?”

Jason leans in a touch, pressing a soft kiss to Tim’s forehead. “With me? Never, babe. I was thinking a movie; guest picks genre?” He looks up at me with a small grin. “For reference: romance,” he points to his own chest, “horror,” to Tim, “and action,” to Damian. “Your call.”

I grin _much_ wider than he is, raise both hands to point at my own chest, and declare, “Comedy.” I get groans from all three of them, and laugh. “Too late; you’re all stuck with it. This’ll teach you to let me pick.”

Damian snaps the laptop shut, leans forward to put it on the coffee table in front of us, grabs the remote from that table, and tosses it into my lap. “Fair is fair,” he says, grudgingly.

Jason immediately swings off the couch and volunteers, “I’ll grab drinks.”


End file.
